


all my bleeding was internal (that's where the blood's supposed to be)

by hamiltonneedshugs



Series: Jake Peralta Needs a Dad [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 15:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17185916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamiltonneedshugs/pseuds/hamiltonneedshugs
Summary: Sequel to "The best family is the one you choose". Jake and Holt are only just figuring out their new father-son relationship thing when Jake gets himself injured during a case. Holt is worried, Jake is abashed. Set during S2E20, AC/DC (because it's not fair that only Terry gets to be concerned). Fluff, hurt/comfort.





	all my bleeding was internal (that's where the blood's supposed to be)

**Author's Note:**

> It's normal to come back to post a sequel nearly 2 years after the original fic, right? Right?

Terry Jeffords was a brave man. He'd been through a lot over the years, and he felt that he'd emerged the stronger for it. He'd stared death in the face. He'd eventually come to live with the horrifying anxiety that he wouldn't see Cagney and Lacey grow up. He'd even told Sharon that he'd decided not to get the vasectomy with barely a quiver of fear.

 

But he had to admit, his stomach was fluttering a little at the prospect of having to tell Captain Holt that Jake Peralta was currently lying in a hospital bed.

 

He knocked lightly on the captain's door and opened it in the same motion as Holt gave him an (almost) welcoming nod. The captain was staring at some paperwork on his desk as if it had personally offended him. Whether that meant it was going well or not, Terry wasn't entirely sure. 

 

"Ah, Captain? I have something to report… About Peralta's case."

 

"Ah yes," Holt said, not glancing up from the paperwork. "Olson, was it? Has he been picked up?"

 

"Not as yet, sir," Terry said cautiously, taking a seat opposite Holt. Holt, apparently sensing his tone, intensified the frown, and removed his reading glasses. 

 

"Well? What is the issue?"

 

"I don't know if you remember, sir, but yesterday Peralta and Boyle mentioned they were going to Atlantic City for a few days."

 

"Yes, yes, I recall. I heard them arguing about the trip nickname very loudly outside my office. Peralta was going to recuperate following his injury."

 

"About that, sir." Terry set a neatly stapled sheaf of papers on the captain's desk, as if it was a bomb about to explode. Holt eyed it with appropriate trepidation. 

 

"What is that, sergeant?"

 

"That is an incident report, sir," Terry said, in his most neutral and placatory voice. He'd used it to calm down gunmen and hostage-takers in the past. "Due to the fact that the 'recuperation' was a ruse, and Peralta was in fact attempting to track down Olson."

 

"He was…" Holt began. The rising tone in his voice was worrying.

 

"Please, let me finish, sir," Terry said hastily. "Boyle called me once he realised, and I went down to Atlantic City to, erm, babysit… But unfortunately Peralta escaped our watchful eyes and… He was hit by an ACPD police cruiser, but he is now safe and recovering…"

 

"Recovering where?" Holt spat.

 

"… In hospital," Terry said. "It's… It's in the report, sir."

 

He poked it fruitlessly towards Captain Holt with one finger, and then dared to raise his eyes to observe Holt's facial expression. It looked both stony, and distraught, which was a feat in itself. The fact that Terry could even detect the emotions present was very concerning.

 

"Is he… Is he all right?" Holt said, and for a terrible second Terry thought he heard his voice crack.

 

"Yes, sir. Well, that is, he is still in the hospital, and they think he'll be signed off for at least another week, but he's expected to make a full recovery."

 

Terry glanced up to the unusual sight of Holt actually massaging his temples. 

 

"My apologies," Holt said, his voice thankfully back to its normal monotone. "It has been a trying few days. How exactly did this police cruiser incident occur?"

 

Terry thought about trying to advertise his painstakingly crafted report once again, but wrote it off as a bad job. "Despite my orders, Peralta was pursuing Olson on foot, sir, and ran out into the road into the path of the car. He was hit and flung up on to the bonnet, but Boyle and I reached him immediately and he wasn't knocked unconscious, or…"

 

The temple-massaging had reached a startling level of intensity. Terry's words trailed off.

 

"You mean to tell me that Peralta, with three broken ribs, three broken toes, and a fracture of his thumb, was running after a perp, directly into oncoming traffic?"

 

Terry murmured some words that might have included "in my report" and, more quietly, "yes". 

 

"Thank you for letting me know, Sergeant," Holt said heavily. "Could you please let me know where Detective Peralta is being hospitalised. I would like to send him some… flowers."

 

Terry produced the address, considered pointing out that Peralta would probably be released soon and wouldn't appreciate flowers anyway, and thought better of it. Holt took it rather abruptly and stared at it as if hoping the paper would ignite before his eyes. 

 

"Don't… Don't be too harsh on him, sir," Terry tried. "I… I already gave him a bit of a talking-to, at the hospital. He… He had his reasons, and I, er, laid down some hard truths. I believe that he took them on board."

 

Holt gave him a long stare.

 

"In the… card, I mean," Terry said quickly. "For the flowers. Don't be too harsh."

 

Holt nodded slowly. "Yes. Thank you. I will… try my best."

 

"I'd better be getting on," Terry said, standing and making a beeline for the exit. Holt continued staring into the middle distance as he made his escape. Terry was careful not to comment when the captain left extremely early for an "urgent appointment" that day.

 

***

 

"Heyyy, Captain," Jake said, with more levity than he felt, as Holt entered his hospital room. Thank God for painkillers, because he had a terrible feeling that the hit-by-a-car thing had not been good for him in the slightest. Even despite that, if he moved too fast lots of muscle groups (or maybe bones) that he hadn't even known existed would scream at him. 

 

"Jacob," Holt said, and sat down heavily in the chair at his bedside.

 

"You're lucky, Charles has been glued to that seat for hours," Jake said. "He only left because I said I'd need someone to get back to my house and get the massage chairs warmed up and he was the only one I trusted for the job."

 

"This is… Not the time for joking," Holt said heavily.

 

"Heh. No. Probably not," Jake said, and swallowed. He was feeling horribly like Holt was disappointed in him, which might be even worse than Terry being disappointed in him. And that had been pretty awful.

 

"Are you all right?" Holt said sincerely. "Sergeant Jeffords explained to me what happened."

 

Jake opened his mouth, thought better of the joke he'd been about to make, and then closed it again. "Eh… Everything hurts, like, a lot," he said feebly. "And I don't feel like I can complain, because this was literally my fault, and they have got me on a lot of drugs, but. Yeah, still."

 

Holt's face did something. Jake wasn't quite sure what it was, but it was definitely unusual. 

"I was not joking about becoming an emergency contact for you, you know," Holt said, his voice a little gruffer than usual.

 

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that," Jake said quickly. "I wasn't… I'm into that. I just… Well, I didn't really expect to get hit by a car. I guess who does, right? So at the time I didn't think too much about it, and to be honest I don't even know how to go about changing that kind of thing anyway, and I was too scared to ask, but it wasn't that I didn't want you to…"

 

"Apologies," Holt said. "Despite my advice against jokes… I was trying to lighten the mood."

 

Jake managed a laugh. "You? Wow, things must be bad."

 

He made the mistake of meeting Holt's eyes. Woof, there was Emotion there, and that was going to be really hard to unsee.

 

"I understand that Sergeant Jeffords has already given you a talking-to," Holt said. "And I have not come here to… reprimand you. But you must understand how worried I was. From what I heard, you could easily have died."

 

"Yeah," Jake said quietly, and then swallowed again. Ugh, even that hurt. Maybe the painkillers were wearing off. "I get that. Not good."

 

"No," Holt said, his eyes boring into Jake's.

 

"I'm… Sorry?" Jake said feebly.

 

Holt sighed. "You don't need to apologise to me. To yourself, maybe. Anyway, as I said – I did not come here to lecture you."

 

"Why did you come here?" Jake said, surprised by his own boldness.

 

"Because after reading Sergeant Jeffords' report, I had the image of you bouncing off a speeding car seared into my mind," Holt said gently. "And I was very worried, and I wanted to see you with my own eyes and check that you were all right. And I wanted to know if you needed anything."

 

"Huh," Jake said. "Thanks." His eyes were watering. Probably the painkillers. 

 

"Do you?" Holt asked. "Need anything?"

 

"Erm." Jake shifted a little, remembered that that was a bad idea, and stopped. "Did… Did Terry fill you in on the whole… situation, with the not wanting to take time off thing?"

 

"No," Holt said, apparently a little confused by the change of conversational direction, but not objecting. "He mentioned you had reasons for your behaviour, but he did not expand on that."

 

"OK, well, so… I told him, and Boyle, and I want to tell you too," Jake said in a rush. It was kinda cool being on painkillers, he could hopefully blame all of this on them later. He recounted the whole stupid Memorial Day saga to Holt. And it did seem stupid, now, lying in a hospital bed with everything aching, feeling a bit sick and very very frightened at how close he'd come to dying. 

 

Holt listened, impassively, of course. When Jake had finished, he said, "Thank you for telling me, Jacob." And then, after a pause, "You should see a therapist."

 

"Heh," Jake said. "… Oh. You're not joking."

 

"No," Holt said. "Your work-life balance is non-existent, and I am surprised that this sort of reckless behaviour hasn't killed you already."

 

"You sound like Terry," Jake moaned.

 

"He talks a lot of sense," Holt said approvingly. Then he gave an awkward cough, and laid a cautious hand on Jake's knee. "Jacob, I hope I have already made it clear that I care about you a great deal, and…"

 

"Don't do this, man, I will cry, and I can't ask for hugs because of all the, y'know, broken bones," Jake said quickly.

 

"Sorry," Holt said, and went to remove the hand.

 

"No, no, it's fine," Jake said. The hand slowly returned. Jake closed his eyes. He exhaled, carefully, so as not to disturb his ribs. "Just… yeah. This whole thing has been… A bit of a wake-up call, in a major way. I… I was really scared, y'know?" The hand on his knee tightened a little. "I had a moment of seeing the car coming, before it hit me, and thinking, 'well, this is it, I guess'. It was… horrible. And now everything hurts, and I feel like an idiot, and I feel like I don't deserve you guys coming to see me, and…"

 

"Please do not be ridiculous," Holt said gently. "You know we are only here because we care about you, and we're worried about you."

 

"I know," Jake said. "I know, I know. Thanks."

 

"I would very much like to offer a hug," Holt said, his voice even more stilted than usual. "But I respect and understand the issue of the… bones."

 

"Yeah, thanks," Jake said, his eyes watering again. He didn't even bother to murmur the word "painkillers" as his excuse. He didn't think Holt was fooled. 

 

"You are an excellent officer, Jacob," Holt said. "And part of that needs to be looking after yourself, and making sure you do not burn yourself out. Physically or mentally. But more importantly than that, it is something you owe yourself. You are not just a job. You are more than just Detective Peralta, just as I am more than a captain. It is very important to both of us, but it should not be the only thing. You deserve better."

 

"Thanks," Jake said, and then, "Can you pass me a tissue? My arms don't work."

 

***

 

It was Boyle who drove Jake back from hospital, but Holt came to visit him the following evening, bearing a bag of takeaway (chosen by Jake), and a disgruntled expression. 

 

"Why do you choose to eat this garbage?" he asked mournfully, as Jake sat on the sofa beside him, and shovelled noodles enthusiastically into his mouth with his good hand. 

 

"'Cause it's great, and because I don't want to cook," Jake said. He fought not to choke on a noodle, and swallowed manfully. "Come on, it's not that bad."

 

"What are these?" Holt said, apparently bemused, snapping a prawn cracker in half with an expression of utter distaste. 

 

"Have you never had prawn crackers?!" Jake squawked, horrified. "There must have been some at that first Thanksgiving we had?!"

 

"I do not believe so," Holt said, now breaking it into increasingly small pieces. 

 

"Heh, that was really good, that Thanksgiving," Jake reminisced. "Remember, Barley and Jimes?"

 

"I do recall, yes," Holt said. His face was doing something that might have resembled a smile. 

 

Jake thought more about that night as he slurped up more noodles. He'd spent the whole day thinking about his crappy Thanksgivings past, and then only at the eleventh hour (and, of course, after a conversation with Holt), had he realised that maybe this could be the start of better Thanksgivings in the future. OK, true, last Thanksgiving had been the Suspicious Powder Incident, but maybe the next one would be better. 

 

"Oh, shoot, sorry, I've been a really bad host," Jake said suddenly. "Didn't get you a drink or anything. Just help yourself to anything from the kitchen. There's orange soda. And probably water."

 

"Probably?" Holt said.

 

"Well, I don't use the taps much. Oh, oh, and there's grapefruit juice in the fridge! I bought some and it literally tastes like you'd think poison would taste. Like, it's gross, and it dries out your whole mouth, and you think you're gonna die. But if you want some of that, please go ahead, 'cause I'm only going to throw it out once I've experimented with the poison feeling a few more times."

 

"Thank you," Holt said, standing up. "Do you want anything?"

 

Jake shook his head, pointing to his orange soda. Holt grimaced, but returned with a mug of grapefruit juice.

 

"Sorry about the glasses," Jake said belatedly. "I broke some of them. Well, most of them. And then… Y'know what, it doesn't matter."

 

"So," Holt said, after a short silence. "What will you do with yourself during your week off?"

 

"Don't know really," Jake said. "What do people do with time off, y'know?"

 

"They take part in a range of activities outside of their work that they enjoy," Holt said.

 

"Huh." Jake thought for a moment. "Guess it's a lot of daytime TV and sitting on the massage chair for me, then. Sorry, it'd be nice to do fencing, but, y'know… The ribs."

 

"Please endeavour not to injure yourself any further," Holt said seriously.

 

"Hey, man, don't start with the real talk again," Jake said, setting down his tub of chow mein. 

 

"On the subject of 'real talk'," Holt said, with elaborate air quotes. "… Have you informed your mother that you have been injured?" 

 

"Nah. She'd only worry. And tell me off."

 

"Hmmm," Holt said disapprovingly. 

 

"And if you're gonna ask if I've told my dad, the answer is obviously no to that too," Jake said.

 

"I… was not," Holt said, his face still expressionless. 

 

"I know it's… kinda my fault, because after Quebec I told him not to get in touch with me until he was a less shitty dad, which probably means I won't see him for years, or at least until he really really needs something from me… But I still kinda feel like getting hit by a car and thinking I was going to die is something I should really be able to talk to my dad about, and I guess I probably never will. And I feel stupid for missing that, because I never really had it anyway, and ugh, I'm sorry, I know we've already had this conversation, I don't know why I'm bringing it up again…"

 

"Did you think years of issues with your father could be solved with… One conversation?" Holt asked.

 

"Er… No?" Jake attempted. "Nahhhh. Nope."

 

Holt sighed. "You are allowed to still be upset, Peralta. In particular following this kind of experience. Following my… minor stabbing incident, I myself was very unsettled."

 

"What helped?" Jake asked. 

 

"Well initially I was rather defensive," Holt admitted. "But once I had… confessed to Kevin, with a little help…" He inclined his head. "I felt like a weight had been lifted from me. Confiding in someone about my concerns made me feel better."

 

"Cool cool, cool cool cool."

 

"Would you like to do some… confiding?" Holt offered.

 

"I… Yeah. But not right now. Could we just sit and watch some of that daytime TV?"

 

"Hmmmm," Holt said. "Do you want me to… ah…?" He awkwardly stretched his left arm out to the side, parallel to the floor. 

 

"What are you doing?" Jake asked. 

 

Holt made a tutting noise, and looked pointedly at the arm. "I was wondering if you would like to…"

 

"Oh!" Jake said, delighted. "Sure. Though it may need to be a joint effort, 'cause, y'know, moving still hurts."

 

He shifted a bit closer to Holt, and Holt returned the favour, until the arm was hovering over Jake's shoulders.

 

"You can put it down, you know," Jake said, and Holt did, giving Jake's left shoulder a gentle squeeze, and allowing Jake to (OK, he was going to have to use the word "snuggle") in closer. 

 

They watched a few episodes of Jeopardy in companionable near-silence. Jake might complain sometimes about the Captain's robotic ways, but he couldn't deny that his quiet presence was soothing. Of course, Jake liked being funny and playing the clown, but it was tiring, and he felt pretty exhausted right now. The break was… nice.

 

After a time, Holt stirred slightly, and Jake could feel the captain's gaze fixing on him. "Jacob? Are you nodding off to sleep on my shoulder?"

 

"Huh?" Jake said, hoping he hadn't been drooling. "No?"

 

"If you're tired, you should go to bed," Holt said disapprovingly. 

 

Jake rolled his eyes.

 

"Come on." Holt nudged him upright, not-unkindly. "I will tidy up. Go and brush your teeth."

 

"Ugh," Jake said in complaint, but he couldn't deny that really sleeping in an actual bed would probably be a lot better for him than trying to sleep on the lumpy sofa. In fact, his aches were coming back. He was probably due for another dose of painkillers. "Fine."

 

Holt helped him up off the sofa, and Jake turned to go to his room. He paused. "You're not… going quite yet, are you?"

 

"No," Holt said, deadpan.

 

"Cool cool," Jake said confidently, as if the thought of Holt leaving him alone with his thoughts wasn't at all frightening. "I'll just go and… yeah. Be right back."

 

He wasn't actually "right back" at all. He did brush his teeth, but then he decided that he should really change from the pyjamas he'd been wearing all day (which now bore the faint smell of noodles) into a fresh pair of pyjamas for sleeping in. It wasn't usually the kind of bizarre logic that he worked with (pyjamas were pyjamas, right?) but something in him couldn't help wanting to make a good impression on Holt. He deeply regretted this impulse ten minutes later, tears beading in the corner of his eyes as he strained to button his top.

 

"Peralta? Are you all right?" Holt called from the lounge, his tone suspicious.

 

"Yeah!" Jake said, and finally managed to do up the offending button. Compared to that Herculean task, limping to the lounge to say goodnight to Holt was easy. Holt stared at him with narrowed eyes as he came in.

 

"Are you sure?" Holt said, his voice a little gentler.

 

"Sure," Jake said, sounding about as confident as he felt. Which was – not at all confident.

 

He realised a moment later than Holt was looking at him expectantly, which was kind of to be expected, since Jake had told him firmly that he would be back, and had now walked into the room. 

 

"Do you want me to… go?" Holt asked.

 

"No!" Jake said, much too hastily. "I mean. You can go. If you want. But I wasn't… I wasn't asking you to."

 

"Ah," Holt said wisely. "Are you heading for bed?" 

 

"Erm, yes," Jake said, and then immediately regretted it. There'd be no way Holt wouldn't leave now. "Do you…? Could you…?"

 

He realised that what he wanted to ask, in his half-asleep, in-pain, and quite possibly drugged, state, was that his superior officer come and tuck him into bed. What the hell was he thinking? Jake closed his eyes in mortification. And then swayed, because oh boy, balance was not his strong suit without those stabilising toes. 

 

"Jacob," Holt said, with some urgency, and there was a hand on his arm, steadying him. "Would you like a hand?"

 

"Yeah," Jake said weakly, and allowed himself to be steered to his bedroom. He belatedly realised how messy the place was, but it wasn't as if that kind of thing was a secret from Holt anyway. Holt efficiently cleared his bed of junk, pulled back the quilt, helped Jake manoeuvre his legs into place, and then, well, tucked him in. It happened so quickly that Jake was almost regretful he hadn't paid more attention. 

 

"Do you need anything?" Holt asked seriously. "More painkillers?"

 

"Oh, yeah…" Jake said stupidly. "Ugh, I left them in the other room…"

 

"Do not get up," Holt said firmly, and returned a moment later with the packet of pills and a mug of water. 

 

"Water, seriously?" Jake said.

 

"You've just brushed your teeth, you should not be drinking orange soda," Holt said disapprovingly, setting the water on the bedside table. "How many of these are you due to take?"

 

At Jake's apparently bemused expression, Holt pulled his reading glasses out of a pocket and began studiously reading the instructions printed on the side. Huh, who actually read those? Jake had genuinely believed that Santiago was the only person in the world that would ever bother, but apparently not.

 

After what really seemed like an interminably long time, Holt neatly pressed out two tablets from the foil, and handed them to Jake. ("You can have more in the morning," he said, "But not before.") 

 

Jake took them (with the water, ugh), and then closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to let a rush of exhaustion overwhelm him. He was beginning to feel decidedly peaky, with the pain creeping up on him again, but hopefully that would diminish soon.

 

"Are you feeling all right?" Holt asked. He was sitting on the end of Jake's bed. 

 

"Yeah, good," Jake said, with a weak smile. 

 

Holt raised an eyebrow. 

 

"OK, pretty bad," Jake admitted. "But thanks. For dinner, and that, and… Yeah, everything, really."

 

Holt nodded. "It's not a problem. You are tired, you need to sleep."

 

He made as if to go, and Jake said, "Wait!" before he had thought through what to say next.

 

"Sorry," he said promptly, as Holt sat down again. "I… Can we talk?"

 

"If you would like to," Holt said formally. 

 

"I know, I know, it probably isn't the best time, like, I feel awful, and I'm in that kind of tired mood when I just run my mouth, you know what I mean, right? Like I'm drunk but I'm not, I'm just tired. Anyway, so… this… This thing, the…" Jake waved his good arm extravagantly in an effort to point to his general injured state of being, but even that made him wince. "Ow. It's made me realise that I'm… Like I'm not taking care of myself at all? Like, I know I don't even try, and it's kind of a joke, but it kind of isn't, and I feel pretty scared and bad, and I don't even know what to do with this time off? What kind of person does that make me? Like, OK, we all rib you for being boring and stuff (sorry sir), but if you had time off I know you'd go have a good time, spend some time with Kevin, do your hula-hooping or whatever. What am I going to do with my time? Since I got back from hospital, I have sat in my chair and stared at the wall while Boyle tried to cheer me up, gone out to the store and got grapefruit juice, which it turns out is poison, and now I've spent the evening eating takeaway and watching Jeopardy with my captain, who I'm trying to pretend is my dad because I want you to be so bad."

 

Holt shifted slightly on his bed, and Jake was abruptly reminded that he was there, and that he was actually saying these words out loud to a living person.

 

"Oh man, please, just… ignore all of that, OK? Sorry, I'm not being funny about you being here, I really want you to be here, but I feel kinda pathetic that I want you to stay and tuck me in, and I feel like an idiot for not knowing what to do with myself, and I'm worried that you're just here out of obligation and are really embarrassed by hearing me say all this stuff."

 

Jake took a deep breath. Holt was staring at him like he'd grown a second head.

 

"Can we… Can we please say that was all the painkillers talking?" Jake pleaded. 

 

"That dose has definitely not had time to have any effect yet," Holt said earnestly. 

 

"Ughhhhh," Jake said, and tried to lean back dramatically on to his pillows. That twinged his ribs. "Ow."

 

"May I offer you some advice?" Holt asked.

 

"Please do," Jake said. "At this point anything that will stop more rubbish coming out of my mouth is a definite plus."

 

"Well, I can at least reassure you that I am not here out of any obligation," Holt said. "Jacob… When I heard that you were injured, I was…" He pronounced the word with distaste – "Moved. I immediately called Kevin and let him know what had happened. I then cancelled my afternoon meeting and arranged to come out to see you at the hospital as soon as possible."

 

"Sorry," Jake said feebly. 

 

"No, that is not my point. My point is, that no one compelled me to do anything of the sort. I acted in this way because I was concerned for you. There is no obligation for a captain of a precinct to come and visit his subordinates in hospital, and certainly not to bring them disgusting Chinese food in their homes."

 

"Hey!" Jake interjected.

 

"You matter to me, Peralta. As we have previously discussed. You also matter to everyone at the precinct. Please believe that any offers of help are sincere, as are the offers of friendship." Holt gave Jake a serious look over his glasses. 

 

"As to what to do with yourself while you are incapacitated, I am afraid that is something that you must find out for yourself. There is no shame in learning later in life that you need to find pursuits outside of the workplace that you enjoy – the shame would be ignoring this realisation. I'm sure you can look up some popular things in the neighbourhood. There must be a restaurant that Boyle would want to try with you, or a gallery that Santiago could show you around? Or a bar that you and Diaz could…?"

 

"Sit in silence in while looking like badasses, yeah."

 

Holt nodded in acknowledgement. "I admit more active pursuits may be off the table for the moment, but you can at least spend this time doing some research so you can find things to do once you are better."

 

"You're right," Jake grumbled. "Actually, I was thinking of taking Charles on vacation after I can, y'know, walk without nearly screaming. A proper vacation. I mean, he'll probably make my life a living hell, but he deserves it."

 

"Hmmm," Holt said approvingly. "Well, and if you wanted to join me for my painting class this week…?"

 

"You know I couldn't miss the opportunity to see The Gray Rock in the face again," Jake said. "It's a legend." 

 

"I know that you are probably mocking my artwork," Holt said seriously. "But yes, it is very pleasing to paint."

 

"You're too much, sometimes, you know," Jake said affectionately. "Can I blame painkillers for stuff yet?"

 

"No."

 

"Shame, 'cause I wanna say how much it means to me that you're here, listening to me talk rubbish. I… Sometimes I still think the whole dad conversation thing we had was just me doing some really wishful thinking, and so the fact that you do actually care, and actually follow through on the promises… Unlike, y'know, my real dad… Yeah, I'm gonna cry."

 

"Oh no," Holt said, with some alarm, and Jake managed a snort of laughter.

 

"Ow. Sorry. Got really real there. Again. It's happening a lot recently."

 

"I think that in general, that should be considered a good thing," Holt said. "However, if you could limit your displays of emotion somewhat, so they do not actively cause you further injury, I think that would be beneficial."

 

"I'll try. Besides, kinda stupid to cry, I'm not really sad. Just, yeah. Tired, and overwhelmed, and emotional, I guess? But mainly in a good way. Thanks to you."

 

"Good," Holt said, and there was almost a flicker of a smile there. "However, you really should go to sleep."

 

"I know, I know." Jake shifted down the bed a little more so he was lying down properly, and Holt stood up to get the light. Jake tried to pick an angle that was the least uncomfortable to lie on, and found his side to be less painful than most positions. 

 

"Would you prefer I stay?" Holt said a little awkwardly, now silhouetted against the light from the doorway behind him. "I was planning to return home, but…?"

 

"You can go, it's fine," Jake said, and, surprisingly, that was true. 

 

"If you are sure?"

 

"Yeah." Jake had a moment to wish that Holt would come and say goodnight to his face, when he heard Holt coming over to him. 

 

"I will send you a text message to discuss the painting class," Holt said seriously. 

 

Jake tried, but failed, to suppress a smile. "Thanks."

 

"Please keep track of your painkillers. And you should not be taking them with orange soda."

 

Jake rolled his eyes, but stilled when Holt put a hand on his shoulder. 

 

"You will call if you need anything?" 

 

Jake nodded in the darkness, and then realised Holt might not be able to see him. "Yes," he said, and before he could think better of it, he patted the hand on top of his shoulder. "Thanks," he said, his voice a little strained.

 

"Sleep well," Holt said, and gave his shoulder a final squeeze, before crossing the room and closing the door gently behind him. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments & kudos on 'The best family is the one you choose' - I reread them numerous times, and you guys are the reason I finally decided to write a sequel after watching this ep. Apologies if my fics all seem the same, I am a predictable soul. Hope this helps if anyone has had a rough Christmas. Please let me know if you enjoyed, and thanks again for the support!!


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